Metal Gear Solid V: The Honesty Spectre
by Sensorielle-Envy
Summary: Post Mission 51. The world is one great storm before a calm. This story follows the struggles of Venom Snake, Ocelot, and Miller to maintain the order they've created by ridding the world of Sahelanthropus. Contains spoilers. *Do not fret, Episode 53 coming soon!
1. Chapter 1 - Episode 52: Prologue

Episode 52: Prologue

" _You, too, have known loss. And that loss torments you still. You hope hatred might someday replace the pain, but it never goes away. It makes a man hideous, inside and out."_

 **19:34 Seychelles Waters, Mother Base, Command Platform**

Spurs enter the dimly-lit corridor, and following the boot rattles are oncoming lights. Switch flicker. He stops, coughs into a handkerchief, then unites himself with no more than living phantoms. And the XO begins to speak.

"It's a sad ending, I think, reflecting on the kids."

The Boss gazes to the Diamond Dog mug, steam rising off its rim. "We seem to be good at those," he says to a coffee sip.

"Not good enough," Miller coldly states, his glazed eyes looking down as he wipes to polish his sunglasses. "We've recovered what of the limbs and hull we could of Sahelanthropus. It looks like the world is still blind to its existence."

Ocelot chimes in, "Will there be any Battle Gear developments?"

"Interesting question." Miller fits the shades over his ears, and they glisten. "I doubt XOF is aware that we currently possess their nuclear weaponry. It makes me feel uneasy when I think about the old Mother Base, but it's a nervousness caused by necessity. We need this."

"It's a tough call," Ocelot says behind a sigh, "but I agree. However, perhaps they'd best be suited for security. We have all aircraft and sea-surfers documented, extracted and not. I admire a well-bred stallion, but I despise the Trojan Horse as much as you do. What do you think, Boss?"

The obsidian horn turns to the cowboy. "Keep them here."

"What's your reasoning?" Miller asks.

"There's no need to place them in the field. Too much alert." Coffee sip. "We don't want the world to know how sharp the Diamond Dogs' fangs are, only that they bite."

"And what of Ocelot's proposed security ideas? You don't think we'd be too modest?"

At that statement Ocelot adopts a suspecting expression, but says nothing.

"It would be modest," Venom replies. "As armed as we are, we specialize in the mercenary, not the maniacal. This base is our Outer Heaven; like the real one, no one's allowed in without an angel's invitation."

"Well spoken," says the man grasping his revolvers.

"Alright, we'll keep the bones to our chest," Miller irritatedly concedes. "I'll let the department's administration know right away." He grips his crutch, leaves the chair. "Get rested, Boss. We're not in the clear, not yet." He exits the room, closes the metal door.

The remaining two men are in silence briefly for a minute, maybe thirty seconds more. The shadows of the room force focus onto the center table. There are words needing exchanged. Venom drinks from the mug, and Ocelot speaks.

"Don't pretend you need that caffeine, like your daily adrenaline supplement isn't up to par."

"It's less for the energy and more for the reality," the Boss answers. "From what I gather, most people on the continents court it with sugars, dairy, until it becomes something else. It's advertised for one thing, but people neglect the original for their own dessert."

"Aren't they both a tad bitter?"

"I thought that was the secret," Boss says with a smirk. "Is Kaz informed?"

"Not yet. I was hoping it would come from you."

"I don't know how well he'll accept the idea, that his only purpose was to aid a doppelganger while the real Boss creates his nation. Certainly we should keep it from sounding so selfish."

"I've known the Boss for twenty years," Ocelot affirms, adjusting his red scarf. "He has never abandoned a fellow comrade. And you are more than just his 'phantom;' don't forget about your own destiny."

"It's an easier task than remembering my own name," Venom responds. "I'm already working on it."

"Right. Would you mind coming with me, Boss?"

"To where?" The empty mug is placed.

"R&D. I meant to show you something."

So the two exit the second floor breakroom of the Command Center's main platform for the stairs, entering a jeep and taking off to the ocean platform. The sun has already set on the Seychelles, and the metallic clanking under the characters' only reminds them that the Diamond Dog never sleeps. Material containers sit nearby, surrounded by several Walkers driven by men who write on clipboards. There are tiny pops that echo from the far-away Combat Unit Platform, likely a squad preparing for deployment in the following hours.

No matter how supplied Mother Base seemed, teeming with workers and scientists, caregivers and observationalists, she is always lacking. Is it the aspiration for perfection, a contest against the real Boss? Or is it merely an eternal absence of satisfaction, like vengeance? No matter the dirt or the bodies who fill it, that dark gap is far from being closed.

After stepping out of the jeep, the duo make their way to the third room of the lab, where prototypes and finalized projects lay about. The interior, Venom realizes upon entering, had the strong smell of paint and iron and wood. Wood isn't a mistake, as there are boards looming over desks and at slants holding myriads of items. Firearms, biomechanical parts ranging from fingers to forearms, blades. Ocelot tiptoes around this controlled chaos of a work station, picking a rifle off a table.

"Meet this," he says optimistically.

The Boss receives it, perplexed that, despite what the sheen and length implied, it was rather light. He looked it over, down the barrel, through the scope, catching one inconsistency.

"Where the hell's the ejection port?" he worriedly brings up.

"I knew you'd catch it," his partner says. "What you're holding is the PDI-5, although," and he gestures to the cans on the olive green table, "you'd know it better as a paintball gun."

Venom groans, and Ocelot continues his explanation.

"With our expeditions into Afghanistan being so profitable this past month, our Support team came into surplus amounts of extracted golden crescent which, as you know, is the herb we use to synthesise what goes in your tranquilizer darts. Now, this stuff on the table is the new project the team wants you to test. Go ahead and give it a whiff, but a very small one."

Boss bends over the can and with a petite huff inhales the contents. He staggers, his vision becoming slightly hazy, and he latches onto the table side for support.

"Our team has been experimenting," Ocelot continued, "with opiates and inhalational anesthetics, specifically sevoflurane and several opioid compounds. The contents of this container are clear in color, like water, and sticky as vaseline. When fitted into plastic packets, they can be used as a long-range projectile against the enemy. Upon bursting, they release the chemicals and within mere seconds the subject is unconscious."

The black-horned merc interrupts. "I... recognize the credibility. How is this more useful than a dart pistol through a silencer?"

"Because this works without injection. Heavily-padded infantry aren't affected by traditional tranquilizers, so this will work on anyone not wearing a respirator. The plastic is durable enough to be fired from afar and not pop or crumble from air friction. Just be careful where you shoot it, as the vapor is visible in daytime shades such as those under guardpost tents. The color of the chemical is also customizable. Red can be used to imitate blood, for instance. "

"No," Venom answers quickly, still collecting himself in a dizzy state. "Clear is... practical."

"Strange, I figured you for a hot pink type of soldier."

Ignoring Ocelot's comment, Snake inquires, "Is there… is there a lethal dosage amount to be aware of?"

"Oh, you'd have to inhale it for a few hours before it becomes poisonous. The force of a Fulton extraction will likely remove the immediate chemical anyway. Any unextracted subjects should be fine if all else stands. Just don't fire it in the rain, that goes without saying."

Venom turns to the door. "Thanks. I'll give it a try on appropriate deployment." His hand grips the handle, and before he could leave, Ocelot makes a final remark.

"One last thing. About Quiet."

Venom's patch shows itself to the gunslinger. "Hmm?"

"I understand her loss as a tactical asset. Her inclusion as an operative was appreciated, even paramount for some covert assignments. For all the trouble she caused at Mother Base, I have gratitude for that much."

"Is that all?" Snake impatiently asks.

"No. Keep this under wraps. Against Miller's directive, I've sent a small squadron into Afghanistan. Miller is under the assumption that they're pulling recovery for an escaped Soviet defector."

The Boss stressfully pinches the bridge of his nose. "What caused you to make such a speculative decision?"

"Well, from the report you gave us, I'm under the assumption that she is still alive, that she hasn't spoken enough English for the vocal cord parasites to result in emerging or debilitating symptoms. I'm also under the assumption that she could continue working as a Diamond Dogs operative if recovery is successful."

"It sounds simple," Snake professes. "What will you do if she can't be recovered?"

"If Quiet is, in fact, alive and symptomatic, it is our obligation to eliminate her and contain the vocal cord parasite. If she is alive, asymptomatic, and unwilling to return to Diamond Dogs, she will be eliminated also. It's only precautionary."

"And if she survived and wants to return?" Momentary quiet.

Ocelot loosens his scarf. "She will fall under my order. Boss, if it comes to that, she cannot come back to Mother Base."

"Good call. Too dangerous, too many diamonds." He opens the door, and it moves with a heavy creak. "This reconnaissance… don't make it a priority. I still need Shalashaska at the front wheel."

The night comes and goes. So was it that the mission regarding the mute sniper's recovery could not be said aloud, and what irony that is.


	2. Chapter 2 - Episode 52: Once in a While

Episode 52: Once in a While

 **11:22 Ali Khel, Kapisa Province, Afghanistan**

Russian words of panic. "I don't know anything!"

"You better start knowing. Where is your colonel? Polkovnik?" Tree leaf shade.

"Polkovnik Lermontov?" The flat side of the knife begins burrowing uncomfortably into the young soldier's neck. Burning sun.

"Where is Lermontov? Colonel? Tell me and you live to see your country become something tangible." The patch-eyed interrogator flashes the iDroid map of the region to the man in his titan-esque choke hold. "I need you to point at it. Point."

His finger slides across the holographic display, and as his indication stops so too does any air circulation through his windpipe. Not too much wriggling, but enough exertion to cause the Boss to switch knees. It's a rough ephemeral shaking, a different species of sleep.

Ear transceiver, pressed-in speech button. "Punishment to Britannia, do you copy?"

"This is Britannia, come in." The adventurous voice of Kazuhira Miller.

"It seems that Lermontov is at Mahmud-I-Raqi." Venom informs. He surveys the immediate environment, recoiling from the solar glare which crawls through swaying branches. Blinking, eye-floater. "It's a dense Red container from what I gather. Waiting on your call, over."

Miller mulls it over, considers the options. "Mahmud-I-Raqi is intricately occupied. It would be a troublesome wait, but a night ingression could be more advantageous. Standby."

Awaiting the information, Snake stands on the blanketed soil inside the tent. He sits on a thin dirty chair, almost like a makeshift convenience. This is hardly a Soviet outpost, defended by only two people one could easily mistake for teenagers. One is unconscious through force, the other subdued with some type of anesthetic-delivering paintball gun; that one in particular appears especially clumsy. His limp body imitates Picasso's cubism, arms and legs tangled between a storage rack and himself. And the Boss is around all this silly intensity, enjoying the taste of the Phantom Cigar.

The transceiver responds: Ocelot's recognizable accent. "Punishment, this is Outlaw. Intel has done a sweep of the mission area. Predicted FOMs have been uploaded to your iDroid. Bear in mind that they may change if you decide to wait until nightfall, do you copy?"

"Copy that, Outlaw. Anything conclusive? Over." A smoky exhale.

Kaz scrolls the detailed computer display, Ocelot speaking on his behalf. "There are three BTR60 APCs working patrol in a triangle formation. The closest vantage point is across the Darya-ye-Pamaher river. This looks like the prime opportunity for your bio-detector, but pay mind to the noise it makes."

"Remember Boss," Kaz reminds, "Lermontov is to be extracted alive. The information he has about the XOF chain of command is too valuable to be lost."

Ocelot's voice returns. "Pequod is on standby. We'll keep you posted. Over and out."

Staring down, Venom turns off the cigar. Delicately handled is the soldier under the paint vapor, dragged by the boots into the Afghan grain, and the other afterward. Both are lifted by Fulton balloons. The sun beats in full, the blur of distant hills emphasising the normal gruelling trek across the landscape. Trees and evergreen shrubbery few and far between.

"Might as well start the walk."

Cassette player in hand, Snake reminds himself of his objective. The play button.

" _Boss, your objective is to locate and extract the Soviet colonel known as Lermontov from behind communist lines north of Kabul. One of the men you rescued by Fulton revealed that Lermontov is in direct contact with a small Cipher-controlled PF backed by the CIA. With his information in our hands, we'll be one step closer to pulling Cipher into the ground, and Zero will follow."_

His feet kick the Afghan fields of green, corroborated by the noon sunlight.

* * *

 **11:28 Seychelles Waters, Mother Base**

"I'll be in my quarters," Miller mentions to his gun-toting Intel major, the crutch's heel poking the boards of the mission control center. "Before I go, there's something I'd like to know."

Ocelot leans in. "Go ahead."

A squinting through sunglasses' amber shields. "That squadron you sent to northern Kabul, have they contacted… what was his name? The defector?"

"Denisovich."

"Ah, that's right. I remember. It's been a few days. Shouldn't they at least have pinpointed a location by now?"

"Denisovich is almost constantly on the move," Ocelot replies, patting his bandolier. "The Soviet's think they want him more than we do, but rest assured. I have faith he'll be recovered by the morning." Those seasoned eyes are focused, attempting to peel back some underlying intention to so far no avail.

"Of course. I anticipate their accomplished return. I'll probably catch you in the evening." Miller exits, leaving behind his coat a thinly veiled inference of Ocelot's real motive.

Alone at the D.D. communications network, he searches the area where the squad in question is en route. The radio is in his grasp.

"Weeping Salamander, this is Outlaw. Do you copy?"

A somewhat distorted voice calls, "This is Weeping Salamander, I copy."

"Have you encountered the target? Over."

"Negative. Continuous sandstorms have halted our progress, although we are searching a place of interest. Over."

"I want you and the rest of your squad to pull out of there by _morning_ ," Ocelot firmly tells him, "regardless of whether the target is recovered. Is that understood?"

The misunderstanding noise of disconnection rings throughout the room, and Ocelot unconsciously compares it to the firing of his favorite weapon.

He decides they're not so different.

* * *

 **21:02 Darya-ye-Pamaher river beneath Mahmud-I-Raqi Soviet Camp, Kapisa Province, Afghanistan**

The day moves with slothful urgency, even slower when one looks to a clock and counts the seconds. For a man like the Punished Venom Snake, whose entire identity and perceptions were sold to him, whose mind is some kind of composed chaos acting as an agent of order for a phantom nation, the thoughts just come running.

His hunger abated by stolen rations, he spends the greater part of ten hours observing the patterns of his opposition. When and to where someone would walk and for how long. There was a brief time where one of the APCs halted, though not long enough for an optimal infiltration. Several people walked to the river, and while it seemed as if the patrol bubble was thinning, cigarettes were the only thing spent, and the people walked right back to their posts, assault rifles strapped over sandy shoulders.

Tents were placed closely, and there were eight towers which now shine spotlights over the perimeter. A grim indigo sky haunted the camp; in all the huddling, the fires, and the conversations, most important is the clear night which hung over their heads.

It's night. It's time to go.

Crossing the river. Chilling sensation, but it doesn't phase him. All Venom is thinking about is how to create a working distraction to grab one person. His thoughts are strictly on the target. People love noise, lights. One person is all he'll need. Soaking clothes and he feels like a worm crawling in the grass, but he blends and that's all that matters.

Approximately fifty meters from camp with the PDI-5 stock planted inside his arm, Snake lays prone and considers his targets. Naturally, convenience is the easiest decision, since there's a tower directly in front of his position. Such an unlucky soldier behind the light. The choice is made, no second thoughts, no going back now. The rifle goes up on the bipod in the same instance the scope adjustments are made. Clarity. Low wind. Short distance. His finger wraps the trigger and he senses within his heart begin to speed up. It always does that on the first shot, like a first impression. He breathes, holds it, and squeezes.

So much tension, and the only element that is of no danger to the situation is the paintball gun.

Impact: center chest. The light above stays in place, and the man behind it is knocked off the tower. If it wasn't the chemicals, then the fall sure did a number. Lands flatly on his back. There's a tent crouched below the tower, and as planned a guard comes from behind the sheet to inspect the sound. Judging by his hand signals, he gestures to others as well. No radio. And there they fall, one after another like dominos.

"What's wrong?" Unconscious. "Get up!" Unconscious. The vapor from the ammunition packet mix is only visible against contrasting light under a shade, but predictably no one is taking the hint. Three men down at a corner of the perimeter, that's where the Snake bites first. Donning a breathing mask, he makes his way to that very tent.

Dragging the bodies inside is straightforward. The second flap into the tent is zipped up already. Changing shifts? Regardless, the Boss takes one man away from the others. A prosthesis flick on the cheek awakens him, sort of.

"Polkovnik?" Venom asks in an orderly manner. "Polkovnik?"

The man's head swivels, his eyelids a stoic metronome pair. "Sixteen," in Russian.

The man is laid with the others once more. Tent sixteen. Thanks to the brightness of the outside lamps, he sees the current tent number as three. If the numbers increase from end to end, then Venom must make his way east. Bravely his horn pokes through the unzipped sheet. He leaves the tent.

As it is night, many Soviet guards are beginning to sleep, though a healthy amount still pace the dirt roads inside the camp. In soft-stepping by their unsuspecting, practically bored dispositions, all it takes is an empty magazine to draw them away. This trick is only used twice to the indicated tent. The first soldier actually ignores it, though checks it out on his returning loop west. The second occurrence is a duo, who continue their casual conversation to the cartridge. Something about hoping to meet a legendary soldier from the west, despite the political gambling of the superpowers.

iDroid notification: "Caution. Rain approaching."

Around this area the tents are larger, more closely packed. Only one spotlight, and it faces outward. Ground lamps are shutdown by the Boss to make the most of nocturnal advantage, and after doing so, he lines up a shot at the spotlighter. From that height, no one will notice. Hell, they'll think he's shirking his duty by sleeping in his bag. Minor adjustments and a trigger pull later, all is according to plan.

Venom's eye is on tent sixteen, only ten meters away. The only direct threat to him now are the twin guards in front. None cover the rear, for that's taken up by the khaki brick ruins of some lost structure.

"Punishment, this is Outlaw, do you read?"

So much attention is on methods to dispatch the watchmen that the sudden signal scares him. A ceased gasp.

"I read. Almost at the target."

"There's an unmarked shipping container north of your position. It's not part of your objective, but I'd like you to Fulton extract it if you get the chance. Its mystery has my attention. Over."

The Boss turns to his left. It's cliche, really, how directly ahead the container is between the tents. Four tents by two, like department store aisles. To the right, the Polkovnik. The ground faintly trembles, the sign of an APC wheeling up to it. In spite of his worries, a rain droplet smacks his forehead, and even more flush the drum fire. A grey steam rises from the cylinder, and Snake has an idea.

It's a straight shot. He peers down the tent aisle, sleeping soldiers on both sides unaware when he hurls it. A smoke grenade. Another. And one more for good measure. The men warming themselves to the barrel talk idly of something insignificant, something unrelated to the threat of espionage. The vapor expands when the rain starts coming down, their yells of confusion gathering the attention of many officers and the APC, which stops just ahead. Two spotlights fail to illuminate the clouds. With all this poor visibility, one would imagine an operative such as Venom Snake to run to Lermontov and be done with it.

Which is why the soldiers who step out of the gas don't see him coming.

Not even enough time to unsheathe a combat knife. It's a flurry from one frame to the next, a boot to the ankles, a prosthetic forearm bouncing off a jawline into a buzzing sound. It's an eerily quiet scene when this black-horned avenger strikes under cover of night; the only sounds ringing out are low-volume grunts and bone snaps. The APC scans the area, expectedly turning up nothing. And the driver's mouth agape in amazement: a balloon just carried away the container. Some kind of magic trick?

The force of the Boss's feet stomp the muddy puddles of the ground while he sprints back to tent sixteen, these splashes almost drowning out the combat alert. Spinning lights coupled with a sonorous alarm aren't his concern right now. The guards ahead are.

"Stop there!" SMGs raise in unison, but are dropped just as quickly. Anesthetic delivered straight to the temple, his neck jolting back. The other man is youthful, inexperienced, and makes the mistake of looking to his falling partner. This is something to disregard in war, the foregoing of sympathy. If only his focus were more refined, he could've been the man to take down the Diamond Dogs commander. It costs him.

Transceiver button. "Pequod, this is Punishment. Requesting immediate pickup." He swiftly zips down the tent flap, speaking equally as fast. The rain's coming down in sheets, makes his hand slip.

"Pequod to Punishment, will arrive shortly."

Venom rips the entrance sheet down. Strange. The only man under this larger canvas is the one at the table, who stands with a snub-nose pistol. Lermontov, who is locking the last bullets into the chamber. A torso round of the paintball gun puts him to sleep. Quick work compared to the time it took to enter the camp. The colonel goes down facetiously onto the chair, his flimsy arms knocking the lantern down. Broken glass.

"Now to get you out of here." Snake carries the body between his arms, stepping out into the pouring weather. The iDroid places the chopper two-hundred meters northeast, and he starts his running to the short hill flanking Mahmud-I-Raqi.

All enemy units are still swarming the smoke clouds, which by now have dispersed, blown away by time and a breeze. The Boss's legs dig into the sludgy short hill, and he almost drops Lermontov trying to keep his balance. He lays the body and decides to drag him. The water slides off his leather eye patch and into his beard, and the sensation is annoying yet minute. In his slow, steady pace up the hill, the colonel's head shoots up.

"Help me! Get me away from him!"

Every helmet switches to the hill, every gun onto that position. The APC cannon swivels with a mechanical hum. They call out to him, jogging closer until they can make out his figure. Snake doesn't have any words to say when he lifts the Soviet colonel. Ocelot's caveat was unintentionally ignored.

Muzzle flashes light up the area, bullets close and far away from the Diamond Dog commander roar up to the sky. He's got Lermontov by his collar now, and with all the strength his left arm has he pulls him forward, his muscles shaking in tune to the suspense. Large mounds of thick mud kick up onto the Boss's uniform from the APC rounds, and with every shot the hill glows like daylight. He rushes over the hill with many soldiers in pursuit, while half-carrying, half-dragging Lermontov's dizzy self.

"This is Pequod, have arrived at LZ!" The cutting whirr of the helicopter ahead touching down is a godsend. Venom approaches, his knees springing Lermontov onboard before doing so again for a jump inside himself. The enemy makes a hasty dash to the chopper, all sorts of deflections and ricochets flying off the sliding door as it comes to a close. The two men in back tumble a bit as Pequod lifts forward to flee. His head instinctively ducks at a bullet tapping the cockpit, though neither are harmed.

"You couldn't pick a better time to radio?" the pilot asks, frustrated. The passengers buckle in, with the target one seat in front of Snake.

In a stupor, Lermontov looks to the eye-patched guy, now covered in mud. Russian. "Who… are you? Will you kill me?"

The Boss removes his breathing mask, chucks it down. "Good news, colonel. We're going to heaven."

iDroid notification: "Rain will clear shortly."


	3. Chapter 3 - Episode 52: Epilogue

Episode 52: Epilogue

 **5:33 Seychelles Waters, Mother Base, Command Platform**

Rapid helicopter flicking, rotor spinning overhead. Colonel Lermontov walks beside the Boss as the Blackfoot flies over the helipad. The sun's presence doesn't quite peak over the horizon line ahead of the Seychelles, though it's radiance paints the sky a nostalgic pink. Noise quiets after the aircraft's departure, and blowing winds from its ascension throw around the ponytail of the phantom operative.

"Polkovnik," Ocelot greets on approach, his blonder strands covering the distant Mother Base expansions. Kaz comes in tow.

"Send him to quarantine," says the XO to a masked worker. "Afterwards, escort him to room 101 on Command for interrogation." At that, a couple men guide the Soviet captive to the bridge, his hands cuffed.

"You think he'll talk?" Venom asks, rubbing the underside of his patch.

Ocelot affirms, "He'll say what we need him to. Lermontov's in the left arm of the world, whether he knows it or not."

"That metaphor's nonsense," Snake pesters in fun.

"I'll say," Miller adds. "All veins carry to the heart." His crutch pounds the platform, shades looking out to distant sea stations. "Although I'm no cognoscente to vasculature."

The gunslinger smiles. " _Nonsense_. We all get to play doctor every once in a while."

Faded memories come to life in the Boss's mind, silenced just as they arrive. Perhaps there is something important in his hippocampus, waiting to announce itself to the new identity above it. For the moment, for Kaz and Ocelot, the feeling isn't pertinent.

Miller catches Venom's attention. "That unmarked shipping container you extracted is over on the second platform. See that white one with the black stripe? Let's check it out."

Snake responds with bemusement. "You mean you didn't open it?"

"Well, no. Not yet. It reached Mother Base shortly before you landed. The team had it weighed, and I saw your flight proximity, so I told them to wait until I gathered the three of us." Miller's trenchcoat begins briskly walking, and when Ocelot and the Boss follow his impatience, he continues. "What I find amazing about it is that for a container that large, it's only fifty-two hundred kilograms."

Venom peers over. "That's a strange case of apophenia you've got, Kaz. What's the significance?" The amber shades turn to him.

"Shipping containers only weigh _fifty-one hundred_ kilograms empty. Boss, there's gotta be something in there. Something lightweight that the Soviets were planning on giving to Cipher under the table."

"You think it could be a urania dispersion?"

Miller's vacant sleeve sways from his movement, and he answers. "It could be, but what kind of placeholder is that light? Even if Cipher's web is sending out uranium, it isn't a compelling amount for nuclear armament. They know that Sahelanthropus is no more, at least as far as they're concerned, and that Skull Face is dead. Maybe Cipher is recalling their contraband yellowcake?"

"If that's true," Ocelot says, "then they have one hell of a problem on their hands." His palms of scarlet gloves are flaunted. "What third-world country would give up the ability to create the greatest invasion deterrence in history? Whatever's in there, I doubt it's yellowcake uranium."

The three stand curious before the container. Miller calls to a staff member, tells him to open the crate. He grabs the latches, one undone after the other, and the trio comprehend its mystery. No category number or serial code, no visual indication of what is inside.

The doors swing open.

"What… what is this?" Kaz raises his brow.

There is nothing said in the following moments, until Venom approaches it and takes a knee.

"It's a little girl," he says. Surprise overruns the mood.

She sits on some thin mattress, her hands covering her face. The interior is rather simple to a cruel degree. A small box of storage meals, about six tanks of oxygen, and a bed make it up. An oxygen mask envelopes her fragile face. The girl, in rags, is young enough to elicit a response on an emotional level. Before this though are questions. She mumbles, almost whimpers.

"What's she saying?" Miller asks, coming forward.

Ocelot bends down towards the girl. "We're not going to hurt you. You're safe here. Can you tell us your name? Where you come from?"

The girl's large innocuous eyes look up to him. Finally she whispers, "Costa Rica."

The revolver-man sighs. "Good, she understands English. What is your name?"

"Paz. Paz Ortega Andrade." Her stare collides with the Boss's. Her finger points to him. "V has come to. You are the phantom, aren't you? Not the real Snake?" The girl slowly crawls off the mattress, the stretching tube to the tank flinging the mask from her face. Specifically to Kaz she repeats, "V has come to!"

Venom inches closer to her, his hands on her tiny shoulders. "How do you know that? Where did you hear that?"

Miller shifts in place behind him. "What's she mean by that, Boss? That you're not real?" He calls to several onlookers, "Someone take her to the sick bay! And… and run X-rays! Before anything else."

The whole situation is eerily surreal. Paz's reappearance certainly shakes the Boss's composure more than anything else in the past day, filling him with the sort of regret one would find in someone suffering from survivor's guilt. That, coupled with the incomplete empathy of a person he's never even met was more than enough to fill the prerequisites for perturbedness.

It all disappears like a mirage when Miller nudges to the Boss.

"Hey, is everything alright?" His face is a blank, reassuring slate. "You look like you've seen a ghost. Don't you wanna see what's inside?"

All of the past five minutes was little more than hallucination, and a calming wave smoothes itself into the Boss's tired face.

"No, I..." Venom pauses. "I'm tired." His back turns to his friends. "Settling in for now." A few steps and a final remark. "Ocelot."

"Yes?" the comrade says, distracted by his commander's behavior.

"Give Kaz the damage report. From _Cyprus_."

Ocelot tilts his head. "Boss, are you sure?" But there is no reply, only the steps of an exhausted man leaving the vicinity.

Within the mind of the Punished Venom Snake is a tempest of conflicting thoughts and anemic anecdotes of decade's passed. There is a downward spiral, a personal conflict steadily injuring his poise. His new home is a warm hearth, yet the recurrence of these visions, Quiet's departure, and the White Mamba's insurrection disturb him. For the next few hours, he decides, he'll push the problems away.

* * *

 **6:08 Seychelles Waters, Mother Base, Room 101, Level 01, Warehouse 01, Command Platform**

The conclusion to Adamska's speech more than rattles Kazuhira Miller's allegiance to the Man Who Sold The World. The interrogation room seems all the more wider, a lonely uninhabitance save for the revealer and rebounding thoughts.

Miller glares at the two-sided mirror. Red light. "What was it all for? If the Boss has some plan, what is it?"

Ocelot attempts to ease his friend's stress. "The real Big Boss is working separately from us to create his new nation."

"New nation?"

He continues. "A military nation above and apart from all; the true Outer Heaven, something created to maintain world balance, independent of the struggles for supremacy or for personal profit, the cycles of revenge between countries. It'll be an army alright, but more."

Shalashaska lays a revolver on the middle table, unfolds a cleaning cloth. "Big Boss is building a nation. But, until it's complete, we support the other Big Boss. The phantom carries on his legend… his meme. That... is Big Boss's plan." The artful engravings trace the outside of those cardinal-colored gloves.

Kaz removes his glasses, the lenses aiming to the pistol barrel. "So that's the way it is. Nine years ago, I thought everything had been taken from me, but now I really have lost it all. The Boss, and the future we were building together."

Ocelot's explanation: "One day the age of Big Boss's sons will arrive. They'll likely wanna settle the score with him. We have to shape that age. We'll each have roles to play. Building the foundation for a revolution led by both Big Bosses, the true one and the phantom."

The expression on Kaz's face turns to fury, his brow diving inward. "No… Big Boss can go to hell." The crutch falls down in a quick turn to the speaker. "I'll make the phantom and his sons stronger to send him there. For that," he bitterly concludes, "I'll keep playing my role."

"Heh, you know… sooner or later there'll only be _one_ Boss." Ocelot unlocks the cylinder. "There's only room for one Boss. His sons are fated to face each other someday too. If the day ever comes that you go back to Cipher, I'll aid the other son, and then you and I…" he proclaims, holding up a high caliber round, "will be enemies too. One of us will have to kill the other."

Miller's scowl intently scans the gunslinger. "Fine by me. I'll be ready for the new age. Until then... we better get used to co-existing."

Two armed staff members open the door, Lermontov in their arms, and on its swing backward, Kaz makes his exit. He is intent on abandoning a living legend to support a mere shadow, even if it costs him his life. Outside of Mother Base, it really is his remaining treasured possession. He ponders how easily it could be lost, removed by the answers.


	4. Chapter 4 - Episode 53: Prologue

Episode 53: Prologue

" _The pain and effort that keep me alive will never know relief, never bear fruit, never be repaid. I know that, but I told myself to focus on some hope, a nonexistent hope to guide me through this burning world. A hope-call it a dream. A melancholic delusion."_

 **11:57 Seychelles Waters, Mother Base, Room 101, Level 01, Warehouse 01, Command Platform**

"What's he saying?" The Boss's voice goes to Shalashaska in reference to the chair-bound Polkovnik, who looks though not sees through the mirror. Snake enters the room with a cloud of stress looming over, its metaphoric shade almost visible to the human eye; surely the room could be no darker.

"Oh, he spilled everything." Ocelot's blue eyes, blue as a sunless sky, line up with Venom's. "The contents of the container turned out to be a mail pigeon; that is, a collection of documents tunneled from one government to the next, in secret."

"Documents?"

"I'm just as perplexed as you are, Boss." He pushes the chair in, the tiny screech rebounding off the walls. "The Soviets intended to send the documents into Ghazni, presumably to a sect of Cipher directly or an XOF extension. What's funny is the, uh, _Ianguage_ it's written in." He hands Venom a manila folder. After much scrutiny, he looks to Ocelot.

"What is it?" he asks.

Those sky-colored eyes. "Navajo."

Venom reels back. "Hmm." He looks to the tied-up Polkovnik. "What else is he saying? Did he mention anything about Cipher's rogue sniper?"

"No, nothing. Which is odd. This discovery implies some connection between the two, though to what extent she is working with Cipher, if at all, is yet to be determined. We did translate the documents, and they're a good match to what Lermontov is saying."

The stiff metal floor sounds to his pacing. Ocelot's eyes are strained from sleep deprivation coupled with "convincing" the Soviet colonel. How he'd love to hang up that scarf for the tender adaptation of a bed against him, to sleep until he's out of dreams.

There is torture, knowing Kaz nor the phantom Snake will ever cease their dreaming.

"Cipher is on the North Angolan coast," he coughs. "Lermontov concedes that an XOF battalion is stationed there, and that the operation's fronting as a newly constructed U.S. embassy. There's no confirmation whether the MPLA is involved or not."

"Is that verifiable?"

"Intel's working on it as we speak."

"Who's the translator?" the Boss inquires. "Code Talker?"

A smirk from Ocelot. "No, heh. No, it's someone from combat personnel. He and his squad recently returned from their Afghanistan 'retrieval.'" Rubbing eyelashes. "The one we spoke about."

"Take me to them," Venom tells his friend.

In haste, the gunslinger gestures to the masked staff at the door to pardon the Polkovnik. Venom's heart races to subtle extra beats, for how uncharacteristically anxious he is. Does it matter if she is dead when their memories persist? Mental photos fade easy enough, he supposes, but why is every detail regarding her so embroidered with clarity? Is this regret for sparing her life or something more?

Morpho butterfly.

Soon enough, Snake and Ocelot step into the third platform's supply depot. A quiet atmosphere, sans the tracheal utterances made by faraway cranes, adding mechanically to the branching cells of Mother Base. Under the gate's noon shadow stand three staff in salute.

"Boss," Shalashaska waves, "these are the operatives given the task of recovering Quiet or any information concerning her whereabouts."

Snake cares little for introductions. "What did you find?"

It takes some silence before any of them speak. They, that is two men and a woman, turn heads to one another awkwardly. Finally, they present a grey rectangular case, sliding it to the Boss's boots. Venom stoops over, cautiously unclipping the lockstraps. If the Soviets are sending messages in shipping crates, why not a letter in a gun case? Is this what he expects, what he _hopes_ for? Lid peels back.

"The Butterfly," Venom says, reaching over to scope. This rifle often covered the phantom Snake's clandestine motion, eliminating anyone impulsive enough to try and confront him, or just any unlucky soldier caught in the way. He remembers ordering R&D to convert the model into a long-distance tranquilizer, and Quiet's initial frustration with non-lethal execution.

The Boss reaches for something stuck in the chamber by the bolt handle.

"A cigar?" Ocelot says.

"Bolivar, from Havana." It's in his fingers, shortly flaunts it to his company. "She knew... I would've wanted one of these." From his breast pocket his lighter. Strong flicks, followed by the smooth taste of spice and fine arbor. A lovely alternative to the vaporizer, more natural. For a moment he's in a different place, somewhere real.

One of the trio speaks, removing him from tranquility. "We were unable to retrieve the target."

A stern puff in reply. "What are your names?"

"I'm Weeping Salamander," he says. "I lead the team. Navajo translator."

"Cargo Razor," the brawny man on the end answers. "She," alluding to the frail, masked figure in the middle, "is Teal Windigo."

Peculiar. "Can't she introduce herself?" the Boss asks, enjoying the half-hanging tobacco. Cargo Razor mutters something to her, and her head rises to her commander.

"Potui non indere me. Possumusne actu?"

Snake tilts his head, pulls out the cigar. "Repeat."

"She can't," interrupts Cargo Razor. "Only speaks Latin. As in the Roman variety."

"So what did she say?"

Cargo Razor's hands cycle in explanation. "' _I haven't been able to introduce myself. Can any of us truly do so_?'"

No, Venom supposes. Like FOX before them, codenames are an integral part of Diamond Dogs' infrastructure. An alias increases unit organization, doesn't disrupt the efficiency of covert ops. As a trade, one loses their individuality, causing all subsequent interactions to feel impersonal. This haunting separation is... idly painful.

An itch the Boss intends to scratch however faintly. "What's her story?" Holds the Butterfly like a walking stick at his side.

Weeping Salamander steps up. "Teal Windigo came from the same exclusive batch of test subjects on which Cipher experimented with the English strain of the vocal cord parasites. Before her capture, she was abroad in Rome studying history. Latin was what she had left."

"Which means that she can do what _they_ can do," Ocelot adds. "Through and through she's a Skull. But this girl never saw time working for Cipher."

Venom looks her up and down. "Enemies never did wear the same face." Another puff, the curling smoke sliding off the shiny chest of his stealth suit. "I'll want the complete story later."

"Es mythos non in capsum narratus sum," whispers Teal Windigo.

"Pardon?"

Cargo Razor picks up. " _You aren't the legend I heard in my cell_."

Snake assumes Kaz must've already let that cat out of the bag. Ocelot would be more hushed about it, but if everyone knows then the evidence sure isn't there. No eyelids batted, no double takes. There isn't an apparent morale decrease because the staff here on Mother Base have established themselves. They mean what they do, the Boss figures, and that's enough. Still, her words touch him in a way few do.

He presses his hand on her shoulder, her reaction to wince catching him off guard. "No. No I'm… not the legend you were told. I'm not the grim reaper you people thought I'd be. The very least I can do as your commander is walk you through the valley of the _shadow_ of death." The Boss lets off, smiles. "I can see you three are green here."

"It'll take quite some time," Ocelot chimes in. "When we're through, it'll fall onto you to be the leaders of the next generation. But, that'll be at least after lunch time."

Venom places the Butterfly rifle in the case, latches it up. The five turn ways, Ocelot and the Boss off to the first command platform. Their first impressions boded well for their ages. Always easy to follow vestiges and muzzle flashes, anything that makes a sound. Credit's got to be given for trying to find Quiet in a sandstorm.

"They're a quirky team," Shalashaska shoots at his friend, but the words go right through, skipping across the Indian Ocean.

"Ocelot, that girl had no weapon around her waist. The boys, they were sporting theirs."

"Is that an ill omen to you?"

The Boss strokes his beard in thought. "The Brennan LRS-46 carries five .50 caliber rounds in the standard magazine. Unless the cigar wanted to find its way into an enemy soldier, there were only _four_ bullets in there."

Ocelot chooses the more sympathetic route. "Maybe Teal Windigo lost her gun and had to rely on what she had. They did engage a Soviet patrol."

Or maybe, the Boss tells himself, Quiet left with one last parting gift. That route, he hopes with all his might, she did not take.

"I'm still not sold on it," the gunman says. "Someone like her… I need to collect intel from teams in the region." He takes a left to the stairs leading up to the command center, but is stopped by a metallic grip.

"No," says Venom bluntly. "You went out of your way for this," and his wrist swivels with the thick Cuban cigar. "Get some sleep. Things don't stop when you do."

Like expressing gratitude for a pardon, Shalashaska nods, then paces to the sleeping quarters. The gesture is appreciated, not argued about at all, but it does little to quell the Boss's apprehension.

* * *

 **12:40 Seychelles Waters, Mother Base, Command Platform**

Alone in the briefing room sits Executive Officer Miller, who leans back in his office chair. Now more than ever he doubts the state of Mother Base, right when the object of his ponderings enters the room.

"Kaz?" Snake gets closer. "You told them the truth."

"They don't think any differently," he says.

"Do you?"

Kaz turns the chair around to face the Boss, who appears like a silhouette with only the hallway light at his back.

"Why didn't you tell me sooner?" he asks in an unsettled tone. The amber shades hang off his collar.

"Because I just figured out myself. It's all a part of a plan. Protecting the Boss," Venom claims, "is our greatest contribution."

Rocketing up on his only leg, Miller's knuckles meet the aluminum chair, the screech annunciating his following call.

"Fuck the Boss!"

The echo hits like a bomb, an explosion of emotion, fidelity. The force of it, the yelling, the strain on his voice, it sends him to the floor. His hand catches his chest, his crutch landing on his back. Instinctively, Snake hustles forward to lend a hand. It is slapped away.

"I don't-!" and Kaz takes a minute to breathe. "I can get up myself." Snake steps back, and Kaz' knee lets him stand. Grabs the crutch, brushes his uniform. "That's my sentiment, why I laugh when I think about Skull Face. When I've fallen, I can get up. He never could." He gets to his shades, which seem to have broken, at least the right lens.

"He sure could knock someone down though."

The room is nothing but for now an immense firing range for Kaz to detonate with his heart. One could imagine such abandonment, but trust itself is only a scope. Without it, all that's left are the iron sights, and they rust like everything else.

Venom reaches for the lights. Kaz intercepts his attempt. "Don't," he requests. "It… it's too much." He grabs his beret off the table, and starts his monologue in the dark room.

"I remember admiring the Japanese kamikaze, that you fuse with your nation, your ideology, and carry it to the grave. Not the action itself, no, that's, that's a waste. But that your death actually means something, and it holds merit in your country. The Boss, the real one, we gave up on national allegiances. We gave up on political pocket knivery. We thought we could save the world from Zero's vision of terror.

"Then you stepped up in his chopper with my same feelings, thinking you were protecting the hero the world needed. MSF removed nations from the equation, but my life I held forward. When I awoke nine years ago training Mujahideen infantry to give him something to come back to, it would've been another analogue to the Sandinistas, another warrior without a weapon. But instead-" He stops, glaring at Venom's prosthesis, then back at his right shoulder.

"It's not you. You're a phantom pain yourself, you know that? He lied to me. He was just another person in the end who said - and I wanted to cooperate - he said 'do it yourself.' Peace Day, Paz, all those joys nine years ago, our efforts in Nicaragua, they were all nothing to him. When Ocelot told me the truth about the 'Man Who Sold the World' he spoke about Les Enfants Terribles, about how we'll one day have to kill each other."

Snake cuts in. "Ocelot said that?"

Kaz goes on. "I don't see the credibility. I won't waver. All I wanted was this family, to protect the weak, to liberate the lost, to prolong the life of war children. To be a diamond in this rough world. And now I know what you really are."

Staggering, the crutch lifts Miller into his commanding hobble to the Boss, bearing his inwardly curved brow of suspicion. Closer, closer. Suddenly when they are face-to-face, Kaz leans the support against the corridor wall, his arm wrapped around his commander.

"I know you're the only real friend I've got."


End file.
